3 Inspector Hobbes and the Gold Diggers (42 page)

I was annoyed and a little worried that the others had deserted me, until voices from the ruins suggested they were not far away. It was almost as bright as daytime and, as I walked towards the voices, my moon shadow flickered before me over the rocky ground.

‘Hello?’ I said, with no response.

As I reached the house, I touched its cold, grey, stone wall and called out again, a little louder than before.

‘Andy?’

Hobbes’s disembodied voice, deep and sepulchral, made me start: ‘Did you have a good sleep?’

‘Yes … thanks.’

‘Good. Are you going to join us?’

‘I would if I knew where you were.’

His hand grabbed my ankle and would have made me jump into orbit had its grip not been so strong.

‘We,’ said Hobbes, ‘are in the cellars.’

All I could see of him was his hand and his big, yellow teeth, glinting in the moonlight, grinning from the bottom of a steeply sloping shaft. He released me.

‘How do I get down?’ I asked, my poor heart pounding.

‘Just slide down this here coal chute and I’ll catch you at the bottom.’

Sitting down, slotting my bottom half into the tight, damp, steep chute, I braced myself for action, but just before I let go I had a thought. The chute was not wide enough for him, or for Denny and definitely not for Featherlight.

‘How,’ I asked, ‘did you get down there?’

‘We used the steps.’

As I tried to extricate myself, he gave a tug and, with a little shriek, I slid into the darkness, where, to give him his due, he did catch me and set me down on an uneven floor. There was a stink of mildew and age and, when my eyes had adjusted, I saw I was in a long, low room with a crumbling, dripping, brick ceiling festooned with a crop of what appeared to be small stalactites. Around the chute, everything was mossy, with pale ferns and spiders’ webs. In the further reaches I could make out a mess of rusting junk, crumbled rock, and rotting leaves.

‘Take care,’ said Hobbes, ‘it’s slippery in places.’

‘Where are the others?

‘In the wine cellar.’

‘So, what’s this?’

‘The coal cellar.’

‘Ah … that would explain the coal chute.’

‘I’ll make a detective of you yet,’ said Hobbes, leading me to the far end, where half a dozen cracked steps led down into another brick chamber. I could barely see him so, reaching out, I gripped the edge of his jacket.

‘There are more steps,’ he warned after a few paces across the lumpy floor, ‘and they are worn and broken in places. Take care.’

At least twenty steps took us down to an echoing chamber where it was noticeably colder and damper, but where a faint light meant I could make out that we were in a wide space that, to judge by its ceiling, had been hacked from the bedrock. I followed Hobbes, walking briskly as he turned into yet another large chamber, one lined with rotting wine racks. It was a little disappointing as a generous gulp of wine would have fortified me nicely.

At the far end, Featherlight and Billy were holding torches as Denny shoved one of the racks aside.

‘This is the door,’ he said, putting his shoulder against a section of what I’d taken to be solid brickwork. With a creak it swung open to reveal a small vault.

As Featherlight aimed his torch, my eyes were caught by the pale gleam of metal. Rushing forward impulsively, intending to be first in, I was shocked when Denny shoved me roughly aside. As I fell and sprawled on the cold, wet ground, a rock, bigger than Hobbes’s head, crashed down just where I would have been standing.

‘Thank you,’ I said, getting back to my feet.

‘You must always wait. Master Gerald said Mr Duckworth di’n’t wait and the rock cracked his bonce, so I had to hide him on Blacker Knob. Master Gerald said it served him right for poking his nose in where it weren’t wanted. It’s alright to go in now.’

Instead of being first, I was left outside, peering in, looking round Featherlight’s back, while Billy opened two solid-looking steel boxes. The first one contained hundreds, maybe thousands of gold coins: the second, gold bars and papers.

Hobbes smiled. ‘Well done, Denny. Thank you.’

‘Pleased to help, Mr Hobbes.’

‘I take it,’ I said, peering in, ‘that those are Colonel Squire’s gold sovereigns?’

‘Correct,’ said Hobbes.

‘And the other box?’

‘That’s mine.’

‘That’s a lot of gold,’ I said, wide-eyed.

‘It was a gift from a lady. I’ve never been sure what to do with it.’

‘For a gift,’ said Billy, ‘that’s not bad. The last one I got was a tie which was too long.’

‘Sorry about that,’ said Featherlight, ‘but it was too tight on me.’

At the very end of the vault, in the corner, lay a small, worm-eaten, wooden chest. Billy opened it. It contained a few pieces of jewellery.

‘Denzil,’ asked Hobbes, ‘do you know anything about this?’

‘It was here when I first come down here with Master Gerald. He said it was very old.’

‘How did he know?’ I asked.

‘It was written about in a mouldy old book Master Gerald found in the attic. He said Sir Greville had wrote it, but I don’t know Sir Greville.’

‘I know about him,’ said Hobbes, ‘because he was in Roger Jolly’s Pirate Miscellany, which claimed that he sailed with Blackbeard, though the Payne family denied it and used their influence and money to suppress the book. Few copies still exist, but I have one. If I were a betting man, I’d wager that box is the last of Sir Greville’s ill-gotten treasure.’

‘You could well be right,’ said Billy, who’d been rummaging through the contents. ‘This stuff would appear to date from the late seventeenth century and contains some exquisite examples of Spanish workmanship. We’ll have to tell someone.’

‘Of course,’ said Hobbes.

‘But what are we going to do now?’ I asked, suddenly aware of the lateness of the hour.

‘Load it into the car and return to Sorenchester,’ said Hobbes. ‘Sid will be delighted to get his gold back. The robbery upset him far more than he lets on and Colonel Squire will no longer have anything to rant about.’

‘I’ll give you a hand,’ I said, squeezing past Featherlight and attempting to pick up one of the metal boxes. I couldn’t move it, couldn’t even shake the coins.

Featherlight guffawed. ‘Put your back into it, Caplet.’

‘He’ll put his back out if he strains anymore,’ said Billy.

It was left to Featherlight and Denny to lift the boxes and to carry them to the hearse. Afterwards, Hobbes removed a few souvenirs from Featherlight’s pockets.

‘How did they get in there?’ asked Featherlight, attempting a look of wide-eyed innocence that suited him as well as lipstick suits a fish.

‘I have no idea,’ said Hobbes, taking his mobile from his pocket. ‘I’d better inform the local boys and then it’ll be time to head back.’

As soon as he’d finished speaking to Sergeant Beer we started for home and, although it must have been a long, tiring drive for Billy, I slept most of the way.

I was woken by Featherlight nudging me in the ribs.

‘Wake up, Caplet, you lazy git,’ he said.

I rubbed my neck and blinked. ‘What’s happening?’

‘We’re back.’

We were outside Grossman’s Bank, where a tired-looking, but beaming Sid, wrapped in his cloak, his breath steaming in the grey, dawn air, was waiting. I couldn’t stop myself from wondering how much of his smile was down to getting his gold back and how much to having spent the night with Pinky. As I yawned and shivered, Hobbes and Denny carried the gold inside, where Siegfried was waiting.

Then we said our goodbyes and went home. I was barely awake enough to drink a cup of tea while Hobbes explained to the others what we’d been up to. Then, to my delight, Daphne kissed me, led me to my own bed and tucked me in. The sheets still retained some warmth from her body as well as a comforting hint of her scent. I slept until lunch time.

Hobbes must have been the only reason that Denny Barker was never arrested or even charged with any crime, and, despite everything he’d done, it felt like justice had been served. Without Sir Gerald’s malign influence, he was a friendly, if rather dim, sort of soul, who was eager to please and help out. He stayed with us while Hobbes was tying up the last strings of the case and number 13 Blackdog Street, with Daphne and Kathy still in residence, was consequently very crowded. Despite having to sleep on the sofa, I found it a happy time. The only real problem was that Hobbes and Denny had contrived to sling hammocks in the attic and, most nights, Denny fell out with a frightful crash.

After a week, Kathy, who turned out to be quite likeable, returned to America. We all went to wave her off at the airport with promises to keep in touch, and I knew I was going to miss her. A week after that, Daphne moved back into her flat, which had been restored and was even better than before. I used to go round to see her every evening and we’d meet at lunch times too, when she could make it.

Life in Blackdog Street returned to what passed as normal, except that when I took Dregs for a walk, I had to take Denny as well. He proved no better than Dregs at catching squirrels. Then, one raw morning, just after breakfast, when Denny and Mrs Goodfellow were washing up, Hobbes put down his mug and cleared his throat.

‘I’m going away for a while,’ he said. ‘I’m taking Denny home.’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘How long will you be gone?’

‘A while.’

Later that morning, Billy drove them away.

25

With their departure, the house felt empty and quiet. I was often at a loose end and Dregs kept wandering around morosely, as if he’d lost something. Daphne’s visits always consoled him, almost as much as they did me and, after a few days, we settled into a sort of routine. Mrs Goodfellow, to my surprise, wasn’t as upset by Hobbes’s absence as I’d thought she would be.

‘It’s alright, dear,’ she said. ‘A week or two in the Blacker Mountains will do him a power of good.’

He didn’t return in a week or two.

If possible, her cooking reached new heights, as if she was trying to lure the old fellow back, and the result was that Dregs and I, and frequently Daphne and occasionally Sid and Pinky, were exceedingly well fed. Pinky, who’d hit it off amazingly well with Sid, had taken up permanent residence and her tea room, on the site of the unloved Café Olé, was already doing a brisk trade. We enjoyed some fine times and my feelings for Daphne grew, so that, for some time, she occupied my thoughts most of the day and quite a lot of the night.

Halloween came and went, as did Bonfire night and still there was no sign of Hobbes.

I read in the
Bugle
about Sir Gerald’s trial in mid-November when, having pleaded guilty to theft, conspiracy to rob, assault, arson and attempted murder, he received a substantial prison sentence. Young Rupert Payne, having been diagnosed with serious mental health problems, was detained indefinitely in an institution.

As the end of November approached, Daphne and I were spending more and more time together. One evening, after we’d been to the cinema in Pigton, and were enjoying a cuddle on the sofa in her flat, she pulled away and sat up, looking serious.

‘Andy,’ she said, ‘I would like you to stay the night. What d’you think?’

I was so taken by surprise, I was reduced to making fish faces for several seconds, before I heard myself say: ‘I think I would like that.’

The following day, I moved in with her. I expected Mrs Goodfellow would be upset when I told her. Instead, her eyes twinkled and she spent a good half hour embarrassing me and poking me in the ribs. It was all very trying, but I forgave her on account of all her past kindness, especially when she invited us to a celebratory supper. It was of course the best meal I’d ever tasted, which was saying a lot, and was washed down with a bottle of Hobbes’s best red wine. It made me realise how much I was going to miss her cooking and it said something about my feelings for Daphne that this seemed a fair price to pay.

The next surprising event came the following day when, by chance, I found a job, even if it was only a part-time one. We were at Pinky’s Tearoom and I was telling Sid about our last supper, getting so carried away with enthusiasm for the old girl’s beef and oyster pie that phrases like ‘love in a crust’ and ‘fresh as an ocean breeze’ sprang to my lips.

A young man approached.

‘Hi, Andy,’ he said. ‘Sorry to interrupt you.’

‘Oh … Hi, Phil,’ I said, recognising Phil Waring, who’d been my colleague at the
Bugle,
and whose life I’d saved when he was about to become an unwilling blood donor to a wannabe vampire. Since then, our careers had diverged. I was unemployed; he was the editor.

‘I couldn’t help overhearing you,’ he said.

‘Sorry.’

‘What I mean is this. Can you write about food as well as you talk about it?’

‘Umm …’ I began, before catching Daphne’s look, ‘yes, I expect so. Why?’

‘Well,’ said Phil, ‘the Fatman is retiring and the
Bugle
needs a new food writer. How about it?’